


And reach to the clear blue sea

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: The Ocean (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: Gen, HMS Beagle, Historical References, Octopi & Squid, Science, pinch hit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 19:51:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17086649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: And the ship goes past this land of fire, this living tongue. The last edge of the map goes on for a while longer. And right there, there is the rest of the world, still unknown. Right ahead, waiting. And the creatures, dancing in the sea, glorious in their change. In blue water, deep, deep down, amazing, like a dream.A story about the friendship between Charles Darwin, octopi and the sea.





	And reach to the clear blue sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sinesofinsanity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinesofinsanity/gifts).



> Inspired by [this excellent prompt](https://sinesofinsanity.dreamwidth.org/6580.html), Charles Darwin's voyage on the HMS Beagle, and octopi, of course!

_I wish that you would set me free forever_   
_but the rings on my arms are too deeply burned....._

_I want to paint you long poems full of fire,_   
_you who I do not know._

_Now my mind is tested with love which_   
_twists and wavers from side to side and which_   
_some day soon you may see..._   
_I want you to cascade_   
_through ten thousand rainbows with me_   
_and dredge mountains from the sea:_   
_you who I now begin to know._

\- [Giant Squid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMld_UZtm5g) / [Octopus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N91EyGMzvgc) (Van der Graaf Generator).

*

There is a place, unknown. There is a place in the world for this. These mysteries, these long poems full of fire, these waves. What do they say? How does it feel? To be underwater, to _be_.

It might have been like this. They packed their bags, and the ship sailed in September. Or perhaps later. They sailed, to make their charts and their maps. To go to the south of the river, to the land of fire, out to the cold, cold sea. This is part of the story. They sailed, and the sea was already there. The port desire. The hidden, southern lands. They found a wide, wide sea that belongs to those who would not claim it. Those who are simply _there_.

And the sea lives and grows and changes, wild through these eyes, through the arms of the octopus and his kind. They learn a code of chasms and voids and depths, because they want to speak. They change shapes, they change, because they _can_. Close together, they dance with the fish. They stop, stop and listen. Their ink marks the end of the sky. Their ink, this is the map they make, in the pools of water, in the leftover tide. Oh, to change this shade! All this, all of this, just to glow, to shine, to still be here. To _be_.

Yes, bring the ships. Look at us, they say. But be kind. Be kind. Keep us in a glass jar, if you must. Leave us at the museum. But don't forget. Look among the clouds. Find us in their shapes. Shell and starfish and octopus, here, here in sky and sea and land. Remember, remember.

If they come, they will find the sea here. They will see them. They will find them, hiding in chestnut-brown hues. In the water, they disappear. French gray, hyacinth red. All these rainbows, all these mountains in the waves.

This is what they heard. They write it down, for the ocean. To change is to stay. To stay is to defy that change. To stay, to be here, and to be someone else tomorrow. And to tell that story.

Yes, this is what they heard.

*

From the ship, he sees a view of clouds of dark ink, like dancing, a bit like words. The sweet, thick heat of Cabo Verde, the clear blue sea, all these wonders out there. And he looks at it, gently, with the eyes of a child. Will it all be left unsaid? He does not know how to begin, so he walks, by the sea, out there.

By the sea, of course, they see him too. They are curious, and they ask. What is his name? Was he seasick? Or was he cross? Who waits for him back home? Will he play with them? He is far too serious, but is he not still a child, deep down? They can see it in his eyes, in his hands. Soft, like little moons, he picks up the nautilus shells. He wants to be kind. He wants to remember, he wants to _know_.

They think that he has a rather funny nose, but he walks carefully, so it is alright. He is still young and bright-eyed, it is all so new to him. Now, here, he is close, so close, and he wants to see everything. The perfect chaos of nature. This quiet, quiet underwater joy. His science, his open heart.

And they laugh, because they are old, they have been here forever. But it does not matter. They change. They play with the lights and the shades. And perhaps they will trust him. Yes, perhaps they will. And they hold on, hold on with all their arms. They want him to know.

*

He writes ashore. And if there is no reply, he walks around with the other men. He walks around, with his notebooks. Wide-eyed. Wide-eyed, he wonders. He looks, carefully, at these miracles of green and brown and red. And the men give him nicknames and they laugh and laugh and laugh. And they write, they still write, deep and far, so far from home.

Out here, he sits with the seabirds and the finches. He tells them stories, he tries to copy the world out here. He fails, but still, why not smile? He will not stay, he knows. But he has seen it, and it will have to be enough. He breathes, he listens. And he writes, these waves of new words, new worlds.

And the ship goes past this land of fire, this living tongue. The last edge of the map goes on for a while longer. And right there, there is the rest of the world, still unknown. Right ahead, waiting. And the creatures, dancing in the sea, glorious in their change. In blue water, deep, deep down, amazing, like a dream.

The sea is still here, the sea stands still. He will leave the sandbanks and the islands and reefs. Silent, silent fossils. Add more rapture to the rapture. Quiet words, quiet, quiet world. He will write, he will learn, he will wonder, here at the centre of creation. Here, at this new world that was already _there_.

*

No, he can't stay. But they will. Forever they will twirl, with the waves and the stars. Across the world, all the colours might change again. But for now, they greet him with water. And he writes, because this is the ink of their story. Their safe passage.

These arms, do they belong with him? Only time will tell. Now, they go south. They carry the octopus home. Snuff the candle, breathe, bring me the teeth of history. It is rough, rough. But it can't be helped.

Homeward, he goes, through good hope. A few drops of rain, here, by the wide, wide sea. Yes, amazing transmutations, he says. One last time, he _sees_ them, exquisite reminders of that world deep down. Shining colours, sleeping, fading into one another, like the afternoon sun. They speak, they change, they want to tell him. They want him to know. So that, years later, someone else might brave the waves. To write about them, or to simply say hello.


End file.
